


Six Strings

by Argosy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Author's Favorite, F/M, Non-Deathly-Hallows-Compliant, Post - Half-Blood Prince, Written Pre-Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 09:18:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argosy/pseuds/Argosy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione thought she had given up music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Strings

When Hermione was ten years old, her mother took her to London twice a week for piano lessons at a small music studio in Covent Garden. She’d long since mastered the age-appropriate classics—Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata" and “Für Elise,” Bach's _Inventions_ —and her parents had high hopes she would one day have the concert career they could not.

The Doctors Granger loved music above all things and each was a gifted pianist in their own way. (Gifted for a _dentist_ , Hermione’s father would inevitably say to the friends who complimented him at parties.) They had met in fact, not as most people assumed at some sort of tooth-related professional function, but at a concert at the Albert Hall—the great Shoshana Rudiakov. But they were both well aware—not deep in their heart of hearts, but right there on the surface—that while each was technically proficient and intellectually sound, neither had that spark, that extra something that would make them _musicians_. They both considered dentistry a noble compromise.

Hermione, though, was to be a performer, a concert pianist in the tradition of Dame Myra Hess. It was with this in mind that her mother braved the London crowds every Sunday and Wednesday. Hermione would play two hours worth of scales or Chopin for her elderly Russian teacher while her mother curled up in the ante-room with the latest _British Dental Journal._

Hermione enjoyed these afternoons (though secretly she believed she would be a dentist when she grew up and had already begun sneaking peeks at her parents’ textbooks). After her lessons she would spend an hour or two alone in a practice room; it was her only opportunity to use a baby grand—her parents could only fit an upright at home.

One day in late July when Hermione was fed up with the heat and the Beethoven, she threw open the door to her practice room and heard something new. It was music, of course, but unlike any she’d heard drifting from the not-very-well-soundproofed rooms before. She knew she should be practicing, but instead let herself wander near the half-opened door across the hall.

A curly-headed young man was seated on a piano bench in the small room hunched over a guitar. Hermione had seen guitars before, she wasn’t a baby, but they’d always been smaller, classical instruments, and the players had sat ramrod stiff, guitar body resting between their thighs, neck pointing up. This boy leaned forward over his glossy caramel and coffee-brown instrument, absorbed in his music, damp curls falling loose over his forehead. The sounds were like nothing she’d ever heard at the studio or at home—loud, sharp, and fast.

She must have made a noise; he looked up quickly and she felt shy and suddenly like a little girl. But he just grinned at her, musician to musician. “Like the Stones, do you? You’ve got taste,” he said, launching into another song.

It was only after several hours of negotiations that Hermione’s parents agreed to let her learn guitar. Next year, they said, _perhaps_ —if you can master the Debussy _and_ the Liszt, and then only _classical_ guitar. It was against their better judgment, but Hermione’s father never could resist her big chocolate-brown eyes.

Then, of course, her Hogwarts letter arrived.

 

_The First String: E_

The house at Grimmauld Place was old, drafty, and smelled unaccountably like overcooked broccoli. Above all it was crowded and tense, which was why Hermione took every opportunity she had of escaping it.

Remus hadn’t exactly forbidden them to leave, hadn’t actually said it in _words_ anyway, just warned them away from Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade. He’d meant for her and Harry and Ron to stay in the house, Hermione knew, or at least remain nearby, out of reach of anyone who meant them harm, but he hadn’t actually _said_ that. And sometimes Hermione needed to get away.

They were close to the end now—everything had a heavy air of finality. The atmosphere at Grimmauld Place was thick and cloying; moving about the house was like walking through honey. Five Horcruxes had been destroyed; only one more to find and eliminate before Harry would have to face Voldemort, and it would all be over, one way or another.

It was the middle of September. The air was finally cooling, and Hermione should have been returning to school, but there would be no Hogwarts for her this year. Instead, the members of the Order of the Phoenix crowded together at 12 Grimmauld Place. Most lived there; others spent their waking hours at the house planning, preparing. It was Harry’s house now and offered them more protection than anywhere else in London could. It was certainly safer for Hermione than her parents’ house, and, more importantly, it was much safer for them with Hermione gone.

So she didn’t complain, just shared her small room with Tonks, and later Ginny (who’d insisted on joining the fight, even as Molly and Arthur pleaded with her to remain in school). Hermione had a good head for strategy—she’d developed the spell that had destroyed the snake Horcrux, Nagini. Remus and McGonagall, now the de facto heads of the Order, were pleased with her, but there were times Hermione just couldn’t be in the house any longer, had to be somewhere—anywhere—else.

Those were the times when she would slip out, hop on a bus or down a tube station, and emerge somewhere in Muggle London. It was a calculated risk; she could blend into the London crowds in a way few Order members could, and it was unlikely any Death Eaters would be looking for her there. Still, it wasn’t exactly _safe_ , and Hermione would take care not to let anyone see her when she quietly left, or quietly returned.

She’d felt the itch starting that morning when Draco Malfoy had unexpectedly turned up with McGonagall, looking tired and used and not very much like the arrogant Slytherin she’d known at school. She hadn’t seen him since he’d disappeared with Snape.

“Severus is dead.” McGonagall had spoken simply, and Hermione had felt something twist in her stomach, surprised at her sudden need to sit down.

Looking around the room she’d seen shock on the faces of the Order members, and... something else. Sadness, even anguish in some cases. They’d known for months that Dumbledore was the engineer of his own death, that Snape had played an unwilling if necessary part. Hermione had been half-expecting news like this, but that didn’t make it any less shocking somehow.

Still, why had Draco come? She’d opened her mouth to ask the question but had fallen silent when his eyes had met hers.

“Professor Snape wanted me to come here if anything happened to him.” His voice had been quiet, and he’d been looking straight at her. “My father’s killed him.” His voice had turned hard then. “But not before he killed my father.” A smile of grim satisfaction had played briefly over his features.

Hermione had felt suddenly cold. She’d used the stir his words had created to leave the house undetected. Now she was wandering down a side street in London, seeing people, smelling unmagical car exhaust, trying not to think about Draco’s bruised eyes.

She’d been staring for at least five minutes before she realized what she was doing, before she actually saw it. This was one of her favorite streets in London, full of junk shops that didn’t try to be antique stores, and tea shops where you could get Earl Grey in a chipped china cup for under a pound. It wasn’t until someone jostled her in passing that she realized she had stopped in the middle of the pavement outside a small pawnshop.

And there it was in the window: a guitar. _The_ guitar (it all came rushing back); the one she remembered so vividly from her childhood. Hermione had known next to nothing about guitars, but the day after she’d seen the young man play, she’d gone to the library and found a reference book. It hadn’t taken long to find the model (she’d started thinking of it as _her_ guitar), and here it was, hanging in the pawnshop’s window: a C.F. Martin  & Company Style 16 steel string flat top from the mid-sixties. It even had the custom sunburst finish of the other instrument—the body was glossily dark brown at the edges fading to a golden tan in the center.

She only had a moment to wonder whether this was somehow the _same_ instrument—Magic? Coincidence?—before she found herself in the shop handing over money Summoned from a savings account her parents had started on her first birthday. She was back on the street walking quickly away, clutching the guitar to her like a lost child, before she quite realized what had happened. At least it had been a good price.

She’d been away from music for so long, she thought she’d lost the urge; she’d been sure she didn’t need it anymore. But as she held the guitar close she could feel the unquestionably Muggle object thrumming with a magic all its own. She’d been foolish to think she could live without this, just because she was a witch. Witches and wizards enjoyed music, Hermione had long since discovered, but it was nothing like the visceral connection Muggles felt. She supposed it was because it came too easy to them. It would be hard to be passionate about art when anyone could have the virtuosity of a Paganini with a flick of a wand.

So she’d studied her spells and incantations and suppressed that part of herself. It wasn’t hard; theirs was not a completely music-less world, after all, and she hadn’t had any time to play anyway. Even now she wasn’t sure why she’d bought the guitar; she didn’t know how to play it, and it wasn’t as though she could take lessons on the eve of war. (She resisted the idea of playing by magic; it felt wrong.)

When she returned to Grimmauld Place, managing to slip in the back way undetected, she heard a voice from the drawing room lifted in anger. “I will fight,” it was saying, “when you want me and where you want me, but that’s all. I’ve answered your questions, now I expect to be left alone.”

“Draco—” That was Remus, voice scratchy and frustrated.

The door to the drawing room flew open. Hermione found herself abruptly face to face with Malfoy, his unguarded eyes raging with such anger and pain that she felt her breath catch. He froze, then his gaze drifted downward. Oh. She’d nearly forgotten about the guitar she was clasping protectively to her chest. A brief look passed over his face—confusion or curiosity, she couldn’t tell—before he quickly schooled his features into a blank, bored expression. He didn’t say a word, just brushed past her, jarring her shoulder painfully, and headed purposefully upstairs. She was staring after him when she heard a voice calling her name.

“Hermione?” Fred’s wolfish grin gleamed all the way from where he sat on the far side of the drawing room. “Is that a guitar?”

She could tell the twins were anxious to try it out. They couldn’t play any more than she could, of course, but a quick spell would fix that. There was important Order business to take care of first, though, and then dinner (a massive undertaking with so many mouths to feed, even using magic), and Hermione fell asleep that night with her new instrument unplayed and largely unremarked upon, only Ron and Harry giving her curious looks, and Arthur Weasley’s eyes gleaming oddly at the sight of a new Muggle artifact.

She was dreaming (of the piano, and Hogwarts’ giant squid) when Voldemort attacked.

Or—perhaps not Voldemort, but... a confused ball of jarring noise and light and panicked voices. She blinked, struggling to wakefulness. Tonks and Ginny were already disappearing into the hall and she quickly followed, blood pounding, head still fuzzy and light. She shook herself, trying vainly to clear the cobwebs. The noise was overwhelming, and it was... It was...

“Fred and George!” Hermione was suddenly awake and full of fervent wishes she would never be on the receiving end of that tone from Molly.

It wasn’t that it was _bad_ guitar playing. It couldn’t be; it was magic. (The Order members blinked owlishly at each other in their pajamas, only Remus having managed a dressing gown.) It was just that it was loud and raucous, filled with staccato picking and jangly reverb. At any time that wasn’t (she glanced at the wall clock) three in the morning, Hermione might have enjoyed it.

The twins’ door cracked open. George peered out. Behind him Hermione could see Fred jumping on the bed, playing her Martin like a Fender electric, and posing like an American rock star. She hoped he wouldn’t take it upon himself to smash it on the floor or set it on fire.

“George! Stop that this instant!” How Molly could make her voice heard above the din was a mystery best left unsolved.

“I’m George,” said the guilty-looking twin at the door. “That’s Fred.”

Fred played on obliviously. His mother pushed her way into the room. “Fred!”

The music stopped. Hermione could see the blood drain from Fred’s face. “Sorry, mum.” He stepped down from the bed. “We couldn’t sleep.”

He tried a smile, but it lacked his usual charm and did nothing to lessen the glower on Molly’s face. “Sorry, Hermione.” He handed her the guitar. “Thanks.”

“We didn’t know it would be so loud,” he was saying to his mother as the others headed back to bed.

On her way to her room, Hermione thought she saw a door open at the end of the hall. She caught a hint of gray eyes and blond hair before it silently closed.

 

_The Second String: B_

The Martin was gone.

The lack of earsplitting guitar hero power chords made it unlikely it had found its way into the twins’ room again, so Hermione wandered through the rest of the house, cocking an ear for any stray arpeggios or pentatonic scales.

It wasn’t until she’d made it to the garden that she finally heard it. Clear and ringing, with a heavy vibrato and a lively swing beat, it was still the blues. She knew before she rounded the corner (past the trellis of bright dangerous fruit that smelled like apples, but were unquestionably _not_ ) who it would be.

“Hermione.” Remus looked up but didn’t stop playing as she sat beside him on the stone bench. She watched his fingers fly up and down the fretboard, complicated chromatic runs that were heartbreaking in their clarity. Leave it to Remus to make a jaunty beat sad. No, not sad, but wistful—full of hopelessness and hope at the same time. It spoke of a vast loneliness that was so much a part of Remus she wondered how she could have missed it before.

She felt uncomfortably like she’d surprised a secret from him. She was wondering if she could slip away and pretend she’d never seen it, when he stopped playing.

“My grandfather was a musician.” His easy smile was tinged with sadness. How had she never noticed that?

He seemed to expect her to say something. “Oh?”

He nodded and began strumming soft chords. “Violin. He was a Muggle.”

He closed his eyes, strumming, seeming to lose himself in the jangling chords. Hermione was about to leave when he spoke again.

“I thought of Severus as a friend.”

This was unlike anything she had expected him to say. She searched for an appropriate response—for _any_ response—but found her mind embarrassingly blank.

He smiled again, eyes still closed. “He didn’t think of me as one, Merlin knows, and perhaps he had reason, but... well, there was much to admire in Severus.”

Again she had nothing to say—why are you telling me this, the only response that occurred to her, seemed like it would be rude against the hum of the lilting guitar.

He opened his eyes. “Hermione, I—”

Words seemed to fail him too, and he passed her guitar back. She held it close, breathing in its old, slightly musty scent and felt more grounded, able to smile at Remus in a way she hoped was encouraging.

“I only wanted to say, the time is coming and— And I’ll do whatever is in my power to make sure you don’t have to know what it’s like to lose friends.”

There was still nothing she could say. Perhaps she’d never speak around Remus again. So instead she just nodded, eyes prickling, and clutched her guitar tight.

 

_The Third String: G_

She’d missed the plan.

And she’d known, she’d _known_ they were meeting, known they were going to decide the best strategy for going after the final Horcrux—a portrait at Malfoy Manor it turned out (now Death Eater HQ, even without Lucius). But she’d felt trapped, itchy and uneasy in her own skin, and she’d taken the tube to Piccadilly Circus and lost herself among the crowd of tourists—people who knew nothing of the coming battles, who could go to bed at night reasonably confident their world would still be there when they woke up in the morning, their world and the people they loved. She’d been planning to get back in time, but then she... hadn’t.

And the very worst part was when she’d wandered back into Grimmauld Place (through the front door, seeing everyone), no one looked at her angrily for missing a vitally important meeting, all she saw was empathy on their faces. McGonagall—McGonagall!—even smiled sadly at her as Harry and Ron each took her by an elbow, dragging her upstairs, murmuring that they would catch her up.

She didn’t realize she was shaking until she found herself sat firmly on Ron’s bed. Harry and Ron looked down at her with worried faces.

“I’m _fine_ ,” she said, irritation growing anew at the doubtful looks on their faces. “I’m ready.”

She waited to hear the plan, to find out what her part would be, but they remained silent. She would scream; if they thought she wouldn’t, they were in for a surprise. She opened her mouth to say—something, then her gaze fell upon her guitar, propped in a corner.

Ron grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, Hermione. I shouldn’t have been in your room.”

No. He shouldn’t have been. Everyone was just a little too free with her things around here, and she was going to tell him that. “Have you played it?” she asked instead, surprised to hear the question.

He shook his head. She looked at him expectantly, and his face broke into a relieved grin. “Really? You don’t mind?”

“Honestly, Ron. I’m not going to hex you in your sleep. Go ahead.”

The late afternoon sunlight was bright, gleaming off Harry’s glasses and Ron’s red hair, and Hermione had to blink against an unexpected glare. She left her eyes closed a moment, waiting for something she couldn’t quantify, and when she opened them again, the room seemed to resolve itself differently—all freckles and green eyes and dark and ginger hair. She felt an almost audible click. It felt suddenly right, natural in a way it hadn’t seemed in forever, being here with her boys.

Ron still didn’t move, so Harry picked up the guitar and handed it to him. “Go ahead, then. Show us what you’ve got.”

Ron looked doubtful, but took the guitar and grabbed his wand off the night stand. “ _Cantus_.”

It was loud, of course, and full of feedback and fuzz, and could magic make her little acoustic simulate a wah-wah peddle? It was fast and exciting and full of a joy she didn’t know still existed at Grimmauld Place. Ron closed his eyes as his fingers flew, and the guitar wailed in a way she would have recognized as magic no matter where she heard it. She felt a smile stretch her mouth and looked up to see Harry’s answering grin. She suddenly realized she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him happy.

Her expression must have changed, because Harry reached out to her. The squeeze of his hand made everything all right again, at least for the moment, and he pulled her close, slinging an arm over her shoulder. They sat, listening to the notes bend, following each other so fast they mingled together into a warm haze, and there was something like peace even through the riot of sound.

The bedroom door banged open. Hermione felt a rush of air fly through her hair and the music abruptly ceased. Malfoy stood there, flushed, eyes flashing. For a moment they all stared at each other. Hermione braced herself for Draco’s rage, but when he spoke his voice was quiet.

He looked at Hermione. “Please have your monkeys cease that racket.” His voice was distant and polite, despite his words. It was the first time he’d spoken to her since he’d arrived, and Hermione couldn’t find it in herself to be angry, though she felt Ron bristle beside her.

“Would you like to try?” She took the guitar from Ron, standing and holding it out.

She could tell she’d surprised him. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and she could see him searching for a suitably scathing reply.

Hermione smiled, trying to look warm and reassuring. Suddenly she really did hope he would stay. She would have liked to have heard what music he would have coaxed from the guitar, and she was so tired of the ridiculous gulf between them all. How was there so much loneliness in a house where they were practically living on top of one another? It wasn’t right, and it was exhausting.

He blinked, then threw her a look of contempt (though it seemed to Hermione it took him a special effort), and turned on his heel without another word. She watched him go. Behind her Ron started playing again.

 

_The Fourth String: D_

The notes were drifting up from downstairs: sad, formal, ordered.

After dinner, Professor McGonagall had surprised Hermione by asking to try the guitar. She’d agreed, gladly, and even stayed to listen for a few moments to the impromptu concert, everyone gathering in the drawing room. The music was melancholy—quick baroque notes in broken minor chords. It reminded Hermione so strongly of her childhood (hours of Bach and Handel pounded on her old Steinway), that her fingers ached with the memory, and she felt such a strong longing— _home, mother_ —that she had to leave the room.

It was dark outside. If she left the house now she would be forgiven, eventually, but they would all be _disappointed_ in her. Where would she go, anyway? The only place she wanted to be was at her parents’ home in Hempstead, keeping them safe. But it was her fault they were in danger; her presence would only make things worse.

So she sat on the landing outside her room, listening to the lovely sounds float up, trying to ignore the wrenching in her stomach. The music was beautiful—lonely, but with a solid foundation of strong steady bass notes. She let it wash over her in crescendos, taking a little of the pain away with each receding wave. She leaned her head against the wall and tried to breathe evenly. As a child, she had always tried to grasp every note possessively, but now she closed her eyes, allowing the song go past as it would.

A door opened, and she felt someone standing behind her. So Draco was drawn by the music too. She kept her eyes closed, not wanting to disturb whatever fragile peace they could extract from bell-clear notes in a minor key. For a long time there was no movement, then he settled near her silently. He was close enough that she could breathe in his scent, smoke tinged with sweetness, like burning cedar.

She felt unaccountably soothed by his presence and something in her chest unclenched so suddenly that she nearly opened her eyes in surprise. She didn’t move, not wanting to lose his warmth, and hoped he could take some comfort from her. She remembered he’d wanted to protect his family, too.

 

_The Fifth String: A_

She watched Draco after that, whenever she could, which wasn’t often. He spent most of his time alone in his bedroom, the only private room at Grimmauld Place. (Privileges for Death Eaters, Ron had muttered darkly, clenching his jaw.) He wouldn’t eat with them, but he started occasionally haunting the kitchen after mealtimes were over, and Hermione lingered after dinner more often, volunteering to tidy up. If someone were with her in the kitchen when Draco arrived, he’d turn and leave without a word. But if she were alone, he’d stay a few minutes, scrounging whatever he could from the night’s meal. She took to setting something aside for him each night.

He’d walk through the garden now sometimes, in the late afternoon when hardly anyone else was around. Hermione understood the need to get away, to seek solitude, so she never spoke to him when she would meet him on her own rambles. The garden was large, filled with decaying, poisonous plants and botanical experiments gone wrong. There was plenty of room for two people to find privacy, no reason she and Draco ever had to meet. Still, their paths would cross almost every afternoon.

Today is the day, she’d think every time they passed. _Today he’ll call me Mudblood or hex my hair out or look at me like I was lower than a flobberworm._ She made a point to slow as they walked by each other, to show him she wasn’t afraid, to linger near him as long as she could.

But every time she looked at him, haunted eyes stared back. She almost wished for the old scorn, the unreasoning hatred. It hurt, in a place deep inside she didn’t want to examine too closely, to see the hunched line of his shoulders, the hollow of his cheeks. Was he mourning his father, she wondered, or Snape? Or both?

She should stop what she was doing with Draco, whatever dangerous game they’d been playing. But each time she loitered near, she thought she saw him stand a little bit straighter, she imagined his eyes looked a little less troubled. She started to crave the quiet rush of tranquility she’d feel when she’d pass him on the stairs, close enough to feel the warmth from his body, close enough for their hands to brush. And he was seeking her out too. When she would look for him (in the hallways, at the edges of meetings), she’d find him looking back at her. He’d glance away, but he couldn’t hide the quick look of relief that crossed his face. She at least was among friends. How must he feel?

She decided to stop her London escapes. No one had said anything to her, but Harry had looked so... worried the last time she’d returned that Hermione couldn’t stand to put that look on his face any longer So if some measure of peace was found in the almost-company of a former enemy, she refused to question it too closely.

Perhaps it was the music they had in common. Draco wouldn’t touch the guitar, but if someone were playing he’d usually be nearby, listening. He’d never go near enough for anyone to speak to him. Hermione started staying at the outskirts of groups, trying to keep him company if she could.

Tonight Arthur Weasley had the instrument. He’d been consumed with curiosity from the moment it had entered the house—Hermione had seen him hovering, eyes alight, whenever someone played, but he hadn’t tried it yet himself.

He hadn’t planned on playing it tonight, either. After dinner Fred had come to her, asking permission nicely for once, and Hermione had handed him the Martin. He’d settled in the drawing room, and his father had hung so closely about asking questions—How does it feel? Where does the music come out? How does it know what song to play?—that Molly finally yanked the guitar away from Fred and handed it to Arthur with a murmured, “Oh, for Merlin’s sake.”

Arthur stared at it dumbfounded a moment, then seemed to rally. “Well,” he said, settling it on a thigh, running a hand over the neck, “if you really think...”

“Oh, go on, Dad.” Fred said the incantation, waving his wand over the sound hole. “Just strum. It’ll play whatever music’s inside you.”

Arthur’s eyes widened. He looked even more daunted but gamely positioned one hand on the frets, the other just above the body and took a breath. The crowd of Order members that had gathered seemed to Hermione to lean forward as one, waiting.

A machine-gun fast flamenco chord burst from the guitar. Hermione had to hold in a laugh at the look of shock on Arthur’s face. His right hand blurred over the strings, strumming hard and fast. What was inside Arthur Weasley was apparently passionate dancers and sun-drenched Andalusian plains. Well, why not, thought Hermione, as his expression turned from surprise to delight. We’re none of us what we seem.

She quietly moved to the back of the room, joining Draco where he melted into a wall near the door. He didn’t say a word, but she could feel him relax, and was glad she could do someone some good. His arm was a breath away from hers; if she moved slightly they would be touching, pressed together from shoulder to hip.

The flamenco ended with a flourish. Before anyone else could take the guitar, Arthur strummed again: an American cowboy song bursting with echoes of cattle drives and saddle sores. This time Hermione did laugh, and she thought she could feel Draco smiling beside her, but before she could look, he was gone, slipping out the door with a quick touch to her hand, almost a caress.

 

_The Sixth String: E_

It was going to be tomorrow just before dawn.

It was still only afternoon. She had the whole rest of the day and all night to—what? Worry? Hold everyone tight? Say good-bye?

No. She’d known it was coming; she was not going to be ridiculous now. At least not any more ridiculous than she’d already been these last few weeks, moping around, going insane.

It was a good plan. It made sense. The raid on Malfoy Manor for the last Horcrux would be combined with the mission to destroy Voldemort. It was only logical to go after him before he had a chance to divide his soul into any more pieces.

They all had roles to play. Remus, Tonks, and Ron would lead teams in distraction raids on other targets. She and McGonagall would be responsible for a Binding Spell to keep Voldemort from fleeing once the attack at the manor was underway.

Harry. She swallowed, willing herself to breathe evenly. Of course Harry would be in the worst of it. The whole plan was designed so that he could confront Voldemort. She’d had to bite her tongue to keep from asking to be allowed to go along. She would be more valuable to him elsewhere.

And Draco. Draco had been put with Harry. He knew Malfoy Manor better than anyone, after all. But he would have thrust himself into the worst of the fighting anyway. She’d seen the gleam in his eye, had felt it like a punch to her stomach. He had something to prove; he didn’t much care whether he returned or not.

Hermione had always been the practical one, and she could see the necessity for action. So then what was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she seem to push the fear aside, like she always did, and get herself under control? She wanted it to be over with. (She wanted it never to start.) She wanted to hide away her family, and her friends. (She was bursting with pride for Harry, for Ron, for Draco even, amazed at their courage, their sense of purpose.) She wished she could feel her friends’ fearlessness. (She wished they were cowards, so someone else could do the fighting.) She wanted to run. (She’d take on Voldemort alone to keep the others safe.) It was all so ridiculous. Why then did it rip her insides with shards of glass?

She sat on her bed, holding the guitar, listening to the squeaks as she slid her fingers lengthwise up and down the steel strings. They were stiff against her fingers; if she pressed down much harder, she’d slice grooves into her fingertips. The sharpness felt good under her hands, the hard edge of the wooden body digging into her thigh was grounding.

She heard the door creak open, and Harry stood over her. She’d thought he was downstairs plotting with Remus or listening to Ginny swear eternal love. He had that worried expression on his face again, and really, she appreciated the sentiment, but he had more important things to think about now.

Biting her tongue on the mean things she found herself wanting to say, she smiled at him, making her face as open as she could. He sat on the bed beside her, and Hermione felt a sudden rush of affection so powerful it was all she could do to keep from throwing her arms around him and clinging so hard he couldn’t breathe. But if she held him now, she’d never let go, and she didn’t want him to have to carry the weight of her fear. He had enough burdens.

So instead she handed him the guitar.

He looked at it a moment, confused, then pulled it into his lap. He murmured the incantation, flicked his wand, then sat motionless a moment. Finally, he lifted his right hand and strummed.

The music was thoughtful, quiet, and slow with a yearning serenity that made her heart ache. She had expected furious chords or eager, excited plucking, but Harry’s music was suffused with peace. Its clear tones spoke of... not inevitability, but acceptance. Had it really only been a few years ago that Harry had been so angry—at his friends, at the world, at his destiny?

His music now was that of a man who’d come to terms with his role. Who was determined, yes, but not impatient. Who knew he might die, but went willingly, calmly to do what had to be done, what only he could do.

When the song was over, Hermione did put her arms around him and held him for a long time.

Dinner that evening was quiet, everybody staring at one another solemnly with wide eyes, until Tonks suddenly turned bright blue.

“Blueberry Brew.” Fred grinned at his mother’s outraged face. “Don’t worry, doesn’t last.”

Tonks gave a great hiccup and was mostly back to normal, though her hair remained the color of forget-me-nots. She looked rather pleased.

After that there was talk and perhaps more laughter than usual. No one spoke of what was coming, though Hermione noticed that everyone sat as close together as they could, and no one complained about the crowding around the table, as someone (usually Ginny) almost always did.

Not everyone could fit at the table, and several people ate standing, leaning against the walls, even sitting on the floor. Draco was at dinner for the first time, slouched in a corner, managing to be alone in the noisy throng. Hermione tried to smile at him but couldn’t tell if he’d seen through the crowd between them. He didn’t smile back and left before dinner ended, before she had a chance to speak to him.

After dinner, the Order broke into small groups (the Weasleys, Harry and Ginny, Remus and Tonks) or retired to their rooms, though how they could sleep, Hermione didn’t know. She was feeling a familiar dissatisfaction, an itch just behind her eyelids. She tried a walk through the garden but met no one. She sat perfectly still in her room but was left alone. She walked all the way up the stairs, and all the way down, remembering the brush of someone’s hand on hers.

At last she returned to her room and grabbed her guitar. She had to know.

She entered Draco’s room without knocking. He stood rigidly at the window, hands tense on the sill, looking out into the dark sky. When he turned to her, his expression—exhaustion mixed with something that looked like a reprieve—made her dizzy. She seized his hand and sat hard at the edge of the bed, pulling him after. There was a jumbled moment—feeling the heat of his body, seeing his puzzled face—before she shoved the guitar between them, into his arms.

“I want to know.”

“What?” He tried to push the guitar away, but she held a hand on it firmly, keeping it in place.

“What the guitar will play for you. I want to hear the music.”

“No.” This time he did pull the instrument away, placing it on the bed behind them.

“Why not?” She was so very tired; it all seemed to hit her at once, and she put her head in her hands, barely able to remain upright. He was going to die tomorrow, possibly (probably), and he wasn’t the only one. What did any of this matter?

She felt a hand on the small of her back, supporting her, so hot it almost burned. “Why will you never play, Hermione? It’s your guitar.”

“I don’t know how.” Her voice was a whisper. Her head was pounding.

“Neither do I.”

“But—”

“Music shouldn’t be easy.” His free hand took hers. He ran a finger over her palm, leaving a trail of heat. “It should be earned.”

She should leave. Her skin felt hot, and her head felt fuzzy, and she didn’t know what was going to happen tomorrow.

“Hermione?”

How could his voice sound so calm? So certain when there was nothing in their lives that was sure? But when she looked up, she saw fear in his eyes. Not that he would die, that would be sensible, but that she would leave. She suddenly realized the hand holding hers was shaking.

And she could at least give him this much, could give him some small comfort and take some from him as well. She met his eyes steadily, ignoring her pounding heart. His gaze seemed to clear, and he lifted her palm to his mouth and kissed it. She felt the tip of his tongue, sandpaper-rough like a cat.

Her eyes felt suddenly hot, and wet, and before she could do something ridiculous like cry, she kissed him.

His arms went around her, pulling her so close she could feel his heart speed in his chest. She reached a hand up to tangle in his hair, and she felt his tongue, tentative against her lips, then more sure, pushing in, brushing hers. His hands roamed restlessly (her hair, her back, her neck) and she wanted nothing but to get nearer to him, to press so close she could crawl inside.

When they broke apart, his breath was fast, his cheeks flushed. She felt clearer-headed than she had in days. “Sure you won’t play for me?” Was that her voice? So breathless?

“Some day.” Had she ever seen him smile like that? “I promise.”

He pulled her close, and she forgot all about music. Forgot everything but the magic that was crackling between them, scattering out from where his lips met hers, warming her like a burst of sunlight. And maybe he wouldn’t play for her now and maybe not ever; maybe she didn’t know what would happen tomorrow, but they had this now.

As he leaned her back gently, lowering her on the bed, she felt magic pulsing out from their bodies, spreading into the room like a wave at high tide, and she was sure she heard music, soft and sweet, hopeful and sad.

 

 

End.  


* * *

  
**The Music:**

Fred and George: "Mr. Eliminator," played by Dick Dale  
Remus: "St. Louis Blues," played by Django Reinhardt  
Ron: "Double Guitars," played by Jimi Hendrix  
McGonagall: J.S. Bach’s "Prelude in D Minor," played by Julian Bream  
Arthur: "Tango Flamenco," played by Andres Segovia and "Ghostriders in the Sky," played by Chet Atkins  
Harry: "Cavatina," played by John Williams  
Draco and Hermione: "Pavane," played by John Williams

Bonus Track: "Anyone Can Play Guitar," by Radiohead

Comment with request to receive the soundtrack.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by the fab harmony-bites. From aeater's request: The stirring of six strings, humming against your hip bone.


End file.
